Callum McLaughlin's Blog, page 30

The Word for World is Forest by Ursula K. Le Guin | Book Review

The Word for World is Forest by Ursula K. Le Guin

Published by Gateway, 2015 (first published in 1972)

My rating:

[image error]When I find the precise niche of science-fiction that works for me, I adore it, but I can’t pretend it’s a genre I feel particularly well versed in yet. In the case of The Word for World is Forest, it’s a prime example of enjoying something far more in concept and intent than in actual execution.

Humans have essentially screwed the Earth (sounds familiar, huh?). With many species extinct and resources dwindling, they have started to take what they need from other planets across the universe. When a peaceful world is taken over, forests felled and indigenous humanoids forced into servitude, the natives begin to fight back. So begins a violent revolt that threatens to buckle the very structure of their society. The allegory here is obvious, with Le Guin exploring themes of colonisation, war, environmental destruction, othering, and cultural erasure.

With all of this interesting and relevant social commentary going on, I couldn’t understand why I was finding the book such a slog. It hit me, then, that the problem was the writing. That’s not to say Le Guin can’t write; she’s revered for a reason, and her prose is very nice at times. The issue for me was the glut of invented terminology. Planets, species, technologies, languages, diction, names; they are all, quite literally, alien. If you read lots of SFF, you’re probably more than used to this kind of thing, and it’s not that it’s difficult to read, per se, but when your brain is constantly having to do that extra bit of work, contextualising all of these new words and discerning pronunciation and meaning, it can slow the pace way down, serving as a barrier between language and narrative. Here’s an example of the kind of thing I mean:

“The runner stood up, bowed her head to Ebor Dendep, and spoke her message: ‘I come from Trethat. My words come from Sorbron Deva, before that from sailors of the Strait, before that from Broter in Sornol. They are for the hearing of all Cadast but they are to be spoken to the man called Selver who was born of the Ash in Eshreth. Here are the words: There are new giants in the great city of the giants in Sornol, and many of these new ones are females. The yellow ship of fire goes up and down at the place that was called Peha. It is known in Sornol that Selver of Eshreth burned the city of the giants at Kelme Deva. The Great Dreamers of the Exiles in Broter have dreamed giants more numerous than the trees of Forty Lands.’”

If that excites you, go for it! You’ll probably love the book – as many do! For me, when it’s as relentless as that (which it is for much of the book), it’s just too jarring. Whilst I appreciated what Le Guin had to say about man’s debasement of the planet, and the ripple effect of violence, I could never submit myself to the particulars of the world, meaning I felt no emotional investment in the plot or characters. It’s a shame, as Le Guin was an SFF author I hoped to really gel with. Perhaps I’ll give her another shot one day.

***

If you’d like to read The Word for World is Forest, you can pick up a copy from Book Depository by clicking here. If you’ve already read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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Jim Crumley & Julia O’Faolain | Two Mini Reviews

The Company of Swans by Jim Crumley

Published by Harvill Secker, 2017 (first published in 1997)

My rating:

[image error]Reading this lovely little offering was proof that it’s worth browsing displays in bookshops every now and then, and taking a punt on something that catches your eye. Nature writer, Jim Crumley, observed the same pair of mute swans in rural Scotland for more than two decades, growing a particular attachment to the gentle pen. In this slim book, he offers us a snapshot of the creatures’ ethereal beauty, as well as the many hardships they face in an effort to fend off predators, survive the changing seasons, and raise their young. More so, he has crafted a surprisingly moving tribute to the pen, who is presented as both emblematic of her species and its place within the cycle of life, and yet, singular in her tragic determination to defy the odds.

With his prose, Crumley paints vivid pictures of the landscape he so obviously admires. His lyrical approach brings an air of quiet magic that suits the majesty of his subject matter perfectly. My middling rating is reflective of the book’s brevity, rather than its quality, and I will certainly be checking out more of Crumley’s work.

You can pick up a copy of The Company of Swans from Book Depository by clicking here.

***

Daughters of Passion by Julia O’Faolain

Published by Faber & Faber, 2019

My rating:

[image error]I should preface this review by saying Daughters of Passion was one of my most anticipated reads from the Faber Stories range. It’s very possible my high expectations contributed to my lukewarm response. The premise is fantastic: A young Irish woman languishes in prison, delirious from a self-imposed hunger strike. As reality begins to blur, she reflects on a friendship that led to her involvement with the IRA, and the criminal act that put her behind bars.

Perhaps because I love this setup so much, I wish it had been a full-length novel, rather than a short story. Whatever the case, I felt it lacked an emotional core. Interesting themes and brief flashes of brilliance in the prose are given no time to take root; the friendship so pivotal to the narrative feeling too lightly drawn to provide satisfying development or lasting impact.

You can pick up a copy of Daughters of Passion from Book Depository by clicking here.

***

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What Red Was by Rosie Price | Book Review

What Red Was by Rosie Price

Published by Harvill Secker, 2019

My rating:

[image error]This nuanced exploration of sexual assault and the resulting trauma manages to completely avoid the trap of salaciousness. It is in this understated and honest approach that the book’s true power lies. The story begins by showing the wonderful friendship that blossoms between Kate and Max throughout their years at university and beyond. The two are inseparable and unwaveringly honest with each other. When Kate is raped at a party by someone in Max’s inner circle, however, she must face not only the physical and mental implications of her attack, but a near impossible question: Should she tell Max the truth, and risk losing their friendship?

The friendship between Kate and Max is one of the most convincing and endearing that I’ve come across in fiction. The dynamic and chemistry between them is fantastic, and not once does Price cheapen its validity by questioning the entirely platonic nature of their relationship. It makes Kate’s dilemma following the assault all the more painful to watch unfold. It’s incredibly poignant to see Kate selflessly carry the burden of her secret alone, seeing it as an attempt to protect Max from a truth she knows will hurt him, potentially derailing their friendship.

The supporting characters are well developed and interesting in their own right. Through them, Price explores the notion that we are all dealing with our own private traumas, and the toxicity that can arise when we internalise that pain or turn to unhealthy vices for escape. She also touches on class divides. With Max’s mother, Zara, being a respected film director, he comes from a considerably wealthier background than Kate, and we soon see the privileges this has afforded his family – even if it hasn’t necessarily brought them happiness.

Throughout Kate’s attempts to understand and open up about what has happened to her, Price offers unflinching insight into the ramifications of rape, with major trigger warnings here for the likes of PTSD and self-harm. She shows us that rapists can come in many forms; that language and perspective can be used to try and warp the truth; and the frustration that can arise when the scars left by an assault are not outwardly discernible. Through Kate and Zara, however, she also explores the role that art can play in facing up to and processing trauma.

As much as I love a lot of what this book has to say, and how intelligently it says it, there were a couple of stumbling blocks right at the end that stopped me from giving it the full five stars. Being wary of spoilers, Kate presents a viewpoint in the final chapter, the wording of which I found very problematic. It was understandable given everything she’d been through, but for it to be presented as though the conclusion of her journey, rather than a mindset that could be challenged and overcome, left me feeling a little uncomfortable. I also felt that a few too many questions were left unanswered. Whilst deliberate to some extent, reflecting the idea that real stories don’t wrap up neatly, the lack of closure on certain key points was still frustrating from a narrative standpoint.

It’s a shame the book ended on a slightly negative note for me. I don’t want that to detract from the fantastic achievement this book is overall. It offers one of the most developed, thoughtful, frank, and important commentaries on sexual violence and coping with trauma that I’ve ever read.

***

If you’d like to read What Red Was, you can pick up a copy from Book Depository by clicking here. If you’ve already read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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Women in Translation Month | Recommendations

Women in Translation Month is just around the corner! Having shared my own TBR for this year, I thought I would also share some recommendations, highlighting a few of my favourites from the past few years. If any catch your eye, simply click on the title and it will take you over to Book Depository, where you can find out more or pick up a copy in time for #WITmonth!

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The Diving Pool by Yoko Ogawa (translated from the Japanese by Stephen Snyder)

This book is comprised of three quietly unsettling novellas that creep beneath your skin in an uncanny way. They explore the sordid, sinister side of human nature that lurks beneath the surface of normal life, caused by suppressed emotion that manifests in a sense of detachment from society and casual everyday cruelty.

The History of Bees by Maja Lunde (translated from the Norwegian by Diane Oatley)

Set in the past, present, and future, this ambitious novel follows three seemingly disparate narratives that increasingly weave together. Lunde highlights how intimately our fate is tied to that of bees and why it’s so important we protect them. Drawing beautiful parallels between them and us, she asks us what kind of legacy we want to leave behind.

The Last Children of Tokyo by Yoko Tawada (translated from the Japanese by Margaret Mitsutani)

A strange, understated little book that focusses on mood and message more than plot, this is carried by a singular narrative voice, and a tone that balances pathos and whimsy. Set in a society where older generations are living ever longer, whilst children are dying young, it touches on many prescient themes, including the rise of nationalism, gender fluidity, the use of language and law-making to incite fear of the Other, and how our pursuit of self-gain is harming the planet.

The Distance Between Me and the Cherry Tree by Paola Peretti (translated from the Italian by Denise Muir)

This bittersweet novel follows a young girl as she attempts to come to terms with her failing eyesight, before she is left completely blind. Exploring difference, self-acceptance, and friendship, it’s also a great example of own-voice literature, with Peretti having the same degenerative eye condition as her protagonist.

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Out by Natsuo Kirino (translated from the Japanese by Stephen Snyder)

When a young woman murders her deadbeat husband, she enlists the help of her female co-workers to help her dispose of the body and cover up the crime. The book then follows the way this act impacts the various people involved, whilst exploring the role of women within Japanese society at large.

The Vegetarian by Han Kang (translated from the Korean by Deborah Smith)

Hypnotic and at times disorientating, The Vegetarian explores the fear and misunderstanding levied at those who are bold enough to be open about their differences, particularly where mental health is concerned. Its allegorical approach won’t be for everyone, but it offers a boldly original look at our inability to understand what’s going on inside someone else’s head, and men’s stifling desire to control women.

Irmina by Barbara Yelin (translated from the German by Michael Waaler)

Inspired by the life of the author’s grandmother, this graphic novel is a look at how easy it was for those on the periphery of war to abandon their former beliefs and slip into a life of quiet complicity. It offers unique insight into a generation that looked the other way during Nazi rule, through choice, necessity, or wilful obliviousness. Though its somewhat abrupt ending lacked a sense of development or revelation, in many ways this was reflective of the book’s main theme: the impact and meaning of what is left unsaid.

The Travelling Cat Chronicles by Hiro Arikawa (translated from the Japanese by Philip Gabriel)

This is a touching and surprisingly nuanced story about a young man reconnecting with old friends, to try and find a new home for the beloved cat he can no longer house. Throughout their journey, we learn about the man’s past, and the ways each of the people he meets with helped to shape his life. This had a lot of potential to become overly sentimental, but I found it genuinely affecting.

***

I’ll leave it there for now, but I’d love to know what some of your favourite books are by women in translation!

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On a Sunbeam by Tillie Walden | Book Review

On a Sunbeam by Tillie Walden

Published by Avery Hill Publishing, 2018 (first published in 2016)

My rating:

[image error]Walden’s science-fiction epic is a graphic novel told across two timelines. The first follows Mia as she befriends and falls in love with Grace, the new girl at school. The second, which plays out simultaneously, follows Mia several years later as she joins the crew of a ship that travels around the galaxy, repairing historic buildings. It becomes clear that she has an ulterior motive, however. Having lost all contact with Grace for more than five years, she wants to find and reconnect with her first love, to make peace with the way they parted company.

I really enjoyed the characters and the story, feeling suitably invested to keep the pages turning with ease. The sense of camaraderie between the crew is great, and the balance of charm and adventure makes for a fun read. The sci-fi society that Walden created is undoubtedly interesting, but I felt the handling of the world-building was underwhelming, failing to capitalise on the narrative’s full potential. There are no men seen or mentioned anywhere in this universe, for example. As a result, everyone’s sexuality appears to be very fluid and open, which I thought was great. However, there are references to Earth, and a very well-handled non-binary character, which means they exist within a society that acknowledges the concept of multiple genders. How and why, then, have they come to exist entirely without men? This is a prime example of an interesting idea that is given no context; the lack of development leaving the reader with unnecessarily distracting questions. Given that the book is approaching 600 pages long, there was ample opportunity to explore these finer details and flesh out the world.

In terms of the visuals, there are, again, some very interesting ideas, and I loved the colour palette. I would describe the art style as a little ‘busy’, however. Coupled with a not particularly detailed finish, this left certain characters, objects and goings on somewhat difficult to decipher, particularly during action sequences. The text is also very small. This didn’t bother me, personally, but I can see a lot of people having to strain their eyes to be able to read it.

An altogether easy and enjoyable reading experience that was worth the time, if not as well executed as it could have been.

***

If you’d like to pick up a copy of On a Sunbeam, you can find it on Book Depository by clicking here. If you’ve already read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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Women in Translation Month | TBR

August is Women in Translation Month; the perfect opportunity to champion international literature written by women that has been translated into English. The initiative was set up to counter the fact that the majority of works translated in and out of English are written by men. This post may be a little early, but I’m already excited to get going, and wanted to share my own TBR in case anyone else is keen to get involved and is looking for some ideas.

Depending on how well I get on, I may well reach for a couple of others, but I will be prioritising the following titles:

[image error]1. Lust, Caution by Eileen Chang (translated from the Chinese by Julia Lovell)

I’ve been meaning to try Chang’s work for years, and it’s about time I stopped putting it off. The title story in this collection is described as an atmospheric look at ‘love, espionage and betrayal in wartime Shanghai’. That’s more than enough to pique my interest!

[image error]2. The Good Lover by Steinunn Sigurðardóttir (translated from the Icelandic by Philip Roughton)

I picked this up during my most recent trip to Iceland, drawn in by the striking cover, and the claim that the writer is one of the country’s most successful contemporary authors within the international market. The story follows a wealthy businessman returning to Iceland from New York as he attempts to reconnect with his childhood sweetheart.

[image error]3. Asleep by Banana Yoshimoto (translated from the Japanese by Michael Emmerich)

This is a bind-up of three novellas. Each story follows a young woman afflicted by a strange sleep habit: The first, mourning her lover, begins to sleepwalk; the second, embarking on an affair with a married man, is unable to stay awake; the third, once embroiled in a love triangle, finds her dreams haunted by the ‘other woman’ she was pitted against. Described as ‘sly’, ‘mystical’, and ‘surreal’, I’m excited to try more of Yoshimoto’s work.

[image error]4. The Unit by Ninni Holmqvist (translated from the Swedish by Marlaine Delargy)

This dystopian novel is set in the near future, when people who remain unmarried and childless by the time they turn 50 are taken to a retirement facility known as The Unit. Here, they live a life of luxury, but they must donate their organs one-by-one until the ‘final donation’. We follow one such patient, whose peaceful resignation to this fate is called into question when she falls in love with a fellow inmate. This is giving me major vibes of another popular novel, which I won’t name for the sake of spoilers, but if you know, you know.

[image error]5. The Iliac Crest by Cristina Rivera-Garza (translated from the Spanish by Sarah Booker)

A surreal, atmospheric hybrid of horror and mystery, this novel is set on a dark and stormy night (as all the best stories are). In it, a man is visited by two women who claim to know his greatest secret: that he is, in fact, a woman. In increasingly desperate attempts to assert his masculinity, the book purportedly goes on to explore the roles of gender and language.

[image error]6. Blue is the Warmest Color by Julie Maroh (translated from the French by Ivanka Hahnenberger )

I’m not generally a big re-reader, but WIT Month feels like a great excuse to pick up this graphic novel again. It’s a queer coming of age story that explores love and identity. I enjoyed it first-time around, but wasn’t as floored as some people, so I’m curious to see how it fares upon a second reading, several years on.

***

I’ll leave it there for now! There are lots of books by women in translation on my TBR, and as I said, I may well reach for a couple of others depending on how well I get on. The ones listed above are all books I already own a copy of, however, hence why they’re my priority. Plus, that should leave me enough wiggle room to pick up a few books on a whim throughout the month.

I’ll put together a recommendations post highlighting a few of my favourite women in translation soon, to hopefully get us all even more hyped! If you’d like to know more about any of the books mentioned above, or if you’d like to pick up a copy in time for #WITMonth, simply click on the title and it’ll take you over to Book Depository.

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Pan’s Labyrinth by Guillermo del Toro & Cornelia Funke | Book Review

Pan’s Labyrinth by Guillermo del Toro & Cornelia Funke

Published by Bloomsbury, 2019

My rating:

[image error]Pan’s Labyrinth is one of my all-time favourite films. More than a decade on from its release, writer-director Guillermo del Toro has teamed up with fantasy novelist Cornelia Funk to create an official novelisation. Set against the backdrop of war-torn Spain in 1944, the story follows a young girl as she gets embroiled in a dark and fantastical adventure, drawing heavily on elements of fairy tale and horror. This thread sits in juxtaposition with the very real brutalities of war, with del Toro exploring the concept of monsters both human and imagined, alongside themes of loss, grief, family, and resilience.

Sticking faithfully to the original narrative, if you like the film, it’s hard to imagine you’d be disappointed with the book. Ironically, however, my love for the film was probably what stopped me from completely adoring this; any small discrepancies or shortcomings standing out more than they likely would have to the casual reader.

The sinister and whimsical tone is translated well from screen to page. The prose is simple and very readable, but it’s occasionally punctuated by some striking imagery that serves as a nice nod to the strong aesthetic prowess of the film: “The trees anchored so deeply in the moss-covered soil they laced the bones of the dead with their roots while their branches reached for the stars.” I did think, however, that there was a tendency to repeat certain words and phrases. This could have been deliberate; a nod to the straightforward, motif-driven nature of fairy tales, but it stood out a little clumsily at times – especially the overuse of the modern phrase, ‘for sure’. I also think it was just a little too meek. Yes, it might be a fairy tale that flirts with the magical, but this story is dark and otherworldly. I wish Funke had embraced that, pushing for a lush and evocative feel, rather than pitching for what feels at times like a middle grade audience.

I love that it is, in many ways, a love letter to the power of storytelling, and the escapism if offers from the darkness of our own world: “When she opened the book, the white pages were so bright against the shadows that filled the forest, and the words they offered granted shelter and comfort. The letters were like footprints in the snow, a wide white landscape untouched by pain, unharmed by memories too dark to keep, too sweet to let go of.” This ties in nicely with one of my favourite aspects of the film; the ability to interpret it as genuine fantasy, or the imaginings of a troubled young girl desperate to escape.

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The book features some gorgeous illustrations, courtesy of Allen Williams.

The book is interspersed with short stories; fairy tales that can stand on their own, but which also serve as backstory for certain characters, locations, and events throughout the main narrative. These offer additional context not possible in the film, but I felt they interrupted the flow of the story somewhat, and threatened to push it towards full blown fantasy, rather than leaving things open to interpretation (though the stories could be read as the beloved tales that have fuelled Ofelia’s imagination, I suppose). Sometimes less is more, and I’m not sure we needed to know all of these extraneous details.

It’s hard to separate this from my love for the film, and therefore to judge it as its own piece of literature. The story, characters, setting, themes, and overall atmosphere crafted by del Toro are all fantastic – as I knew they would be. Revisiting the world he created via a new medium was at once nostalgic and fresh, and in that sense, I loved it. That said, I do think it would work best for people already familiar with the movie.

I suppose it was always going to be hard to please such an avid fan of the original, hence why this review for a book I actually very much enjoyed has come across more harshly than intended: I just wasn’t wholly convinced by Funke’s prose; a darker and more mature approach could have made this my dream read. Nonetheless, it offered a solid reading experience, and it was certainly worth picking up, even if it is a rare instance in which I’d argue firmly that the film is better than the book.

***

If you’d like to give Pan’s Labyrinth a go, you can pick up a copy from Book Depository by clicking here. If you’ve already read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts, particularly how you felt it compared to the film!

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The Girls by Emma Cline | Book Review

The Girls by Emma Cline

Published by Vintage, 2016

My rating:

[image error]This was the book of the summer a few years back. Having waited a sufficient amount of time for the hype to die down, I hoped I’d be able to go into this feeling neutral and open-minded. Perhaps my expectations were still too high, however, as I can’t help but feel a little underwhelmed.

I’ll start with what I did like. The story follows a teenage girl who gets drawn into the periphery of a cult at the tale end of the 1960s, the stifling heat of summer reflected in the heady, claustrophobic atmosphere. In an age where radicalisation is a pressing issue, I really appreciate the way Cline addressed Evie’s inception into the group. She shows us how easy it is for a young and impressionable person to be drawn towards the wrong kind of people, when society has taught them to seek validation and purpose through the attention and affection of others. I also liked the non-linear timeline. Though the sections following Evie in adulthood add little to the overall plot, having her look back with retrospect on her teen years allows for a more analytical, perceptive, and mature narrative voice.

Here’s where things came a little unstuck for me, however. Though I was pleasantly surprised by how lyrical Cline’s prose was, there was a glut of superfluous metaphors, meaning she edged towards style over substance at times. I also think the book simply plays all its cards too early. From the opening pages, we know that Evie spends the summer of 1969 with this group; we know how and why she first becomes involved with them; we know the horrific act of violence they will go on to commit; and we know that Evie will not take part in this act herself. The book thus went on to feel sluggish and overly long, with little room left for unexpected developments regarding plot or themes. With so much build up to a climax we already know, and both Evie and the reader held at something of a distance throughout, the emotional payoff feels lacking. I also thought there was a massive leap from the cult’s (admittedly toxic) behaviour and dynamic, to the brutal murder of four innocent people, with no real in between. The motivation behind said murder was also so ridiculous it left me feeling baffled more than disturbed.

All-in-all, I just don’t think the book really goes anywhere. It has a fascinating concept, and some interesting characters and ideas to work with, but by the end, they – and the reader – remain in exactly the same position in which they started. Perhaps if plot details had unfolded more organically, or things had been condensed somehow, the book could have had more impact. As it is, it left me wondering what Cline wanted to say.

***

If you’d like to read The Girls, you can pick up a copy from Book Depository by clicking here. If you’ve already read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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My Lovely Wife by Samantha Downing | Book Review

My Lovely Wife by Samantha Downing

Published by Michael Joseph, 2019

My rating:

[image error]Sometimes, you want thought-provoking thematic depth, and sometimes, you just want a good story that sees you flying through the pages. The next time you’re in the mood for the latter, you could do a lot worse than My Lovely Wife.

This well-plotted and deliciously dark thriller isn’t a whodunnit. On the contrary, we know from the off that the unnamed protagonist and his wife have been literally getting away with murder for quite some time. As such, it’s never about who is committing these awful crimes, but why, and if and how they will get away with it. Putting us inside the mind of a serial killer not only makes us constantly question our narrator’s reliability, but it allows Downing to pose interesting questions about our own moral compasses. Though he is undoubtedly a horrible human being, he shows himself to be surprisingly remorseful at times, and genuinely caring towards his teenage children. Emerging as the lesser of two evils when held up against his wife, some may find themselves sympathising with or even rooting for him, leaving us – the reader – in a bizarre moral quandary.

I loved the way this dynamic advanced throughout the story. The more complex the characters’ web of secrets and lies became in order to cover their tracks, the more the ripple effects began to impact those closest to them – their children, their friends, and their community. Watching their disparate reactions to this, and once again asking us to consider if there is some kind of ‘scale’ of badness, was a unique and refreshing angle from which to approach a thriller.

With such a melodramatic setup – a husband and wife committing a spate of murders whilst trying to uphold their domestic obligations – there’s a slight suspension of disbelief required. The readable prose and well-placed twists keep everything moving at a great pace, however, meaning I was more than willing to submit myself to the story and enjoy it at face value. I would definitely read more from this author.

***

If you’d like to give My Lovely Wife a go, you can pick up a copy from Book Depository by clicking here. If you’ve already read it, I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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June Wrap Up

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The books I read in June

Like most people, I can’t quite believe we’ve reached the halfway point of the year already. And yet, here we are! Throughout June, I finished 10 books, bringing my total for the year so far up to 62. Here are some very brief thoughts on each of them, with links to my full reviews if you’d like to know more.

Animals Eat Each Other by Elle Nash

[ ] An intense and intoxicating look at one woman’s downward spiral of self-destruction as she becomes involved in a three-way relationship, using her body to seek validation and meaning. Bold and unflinching, it’s not for the faint-hearted.

Lanny by Max Porter

[ ] A unique, experimental, and engaging read that explores time and place, misfits and community, the transformative power of art, and man’s bond with the natural world. Beguiling and oddly magical, it’s sure to provoke disparate reactions.

The Wildlands by Abby Geni

[ ] A powerful, tense family drama that explores the bond of siblings, the illusion of man’s rule over the land, and the animal instincts in all of us to both lash out and protect the ones we love. With brilliantly flawed and believable characters, and clever commentary on trauma and toxic masculinity, I was utterly enthralled.

Triquetra by Kirstyn McDermott

[ ] This ‘what if’ sequel to Snow White is a suitably dark and gothic game of nerve and paranoia, pitting our inherent proclivity for selfishness against a warped sense of sisterhood.

Convenience Store Woman by Sayaka Murata

[ ] This quiet and understated little novel is a worthwhile look at society versus the individual, with subtle commentary on the pervasive quality of misogyny and class snobbery. Written with an easy grace, it’s both smart and highly readable.

Literary Witches by Taisia Kitaiskaia

[ ] This gem of a book is comprised of poetic vignettes, brief biographical insight, recommended reading, and stunning portraits of 30 pioneering female writers; likening their profound way with words to a kind of magic. Beautiful, diverse, and informative, it’s one I know I’ll go back to regularly.

Sadie by Courtney Summers

[ ] This is a hugely readable and well paced look at trauma and revenge that manages to completely avoid gratuity. Fleshed-out characters and a cleverly pitched ending allow for real emotional impact.

The Best We Could Do by Thi Bui

[ ] This deeply personal yet outwardly ambitious graphic memoir looks at the ripple effect of war and displacement throughout generations of a family. Eye-opening on a political level, and engaging on a human level, it offers a unique perspective on Vietnam’s recent past.

Tyger, Tyger by William Blake

[ ] There are some nice lines in this slim volume of Blake’s poetry, but I found it too archaic and repetitive in its use of language, rhyme, and themes to inspire any real emotional investment.

The Pumpkin Eater by Penelope Mortimer

[ ] A quietly powerful and darkly funny look at the mental breakdown of a woman left unsatisfied by the role of wife and mother. This book bites with the wave of feminism that would follow, but it’s hindered by a failure to capitalise on its full potential, and some use of uncomfortably outdated slurs.

***

There we have it! This was a strong reading month, but the real standouts were The Wildlands and Literary Witches. What was your favourite read in June?

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